LOSR: A RWBY Parody
by Chris7221
Summary: No powers. No talents. No skills. No colors. No reason to be here. No right to be here. But they're here. And they've got no idea what they're doing. A parody of RWBY that follows along with other characters, kind of in the vein of Concerned but with my usual brand of humour.


This is a quick and dirty parody of RWBY. It's kind of in the vein of Concerned (the webcomic) in that it follows a... much less glamourous team that goes through a similar series of events as team RWBY. Other than that, it's my own blend of humour, full of deconstruction, references, and people doing stupid things.

I don't think there will be anything resembling sexual situations, but this story is rated M because of heavy swearing and significant innuendo, as well as possible extreme violence. This is one of those politically incorrect things that makes jokes at the expense of everyone and anyone. If you are sensitive, turn back now.

I was gonna write some trailers but I was lazy and written trailers kind of suck anyway. I know some people like them, but they never did it for me. I wrote this all in one session, and it went way longer than I thought it would.

* * *

**PROLOGUE: Fooling around with the microphone**

Female Voice: Stories.

Female Voice: We like to read stories about people doing stuff way cooler than our boring lives, forgetting that we are the byproducts of interesting times.

Female Voice: Man was cool but was born into a crapsack world. Evil creatures, creatures of Grimm, soon emerged and threatened to wreck the shit out of everything man built.

Female Voice: Man's passion, ingenuity, resourcefulness, and copious amounts of alcohol resulted in the invention of magic. This power, due to trademark laws, was named Dust.

Female Voice: Using this, man started killing all the Grimm, and the arms race to build castles visible from space began.

Female Voice: But even the most brilliant lights flicker and die, even the really expensive LED ones.

Female Voice: So you may prepare your guardians, build your monuments to a free world, but take heed, as soon as you pull out the fundamentalists are going to take over again.

Male Voice: TANK!

Male Voice 2: OH SHIT!

Male Voice 3: HUNTER'S ON BILL!

Male Voice 2: ZOEY! GET OVER HERE!

* * *

**EPISODE 1: Luke Starkiller**

Somewhere in Detroit

The moon was broken today, basically nobody noted. Sometimes the moon appeared to be shattered, sometimes it appeared to be whole. It had been shifting between phases ever since the disastrous aftermath of the Soviet moon landing, which had been held against them for something like 30 years. These days, however, nobody really mentioned it outside of historical discussions, because the Soviet Union hasn't existed for over twenty years. In fact, if you're reading this, you were probably born years after the fall of communism.

The man in the white jacket with bright orange hair, bowler cap and long black gloves was not a communist, even though the cigar in his mouth was a Cuban. In fact, he was basically as far as a communist one could be without being a Nazi, although proponents of the politics circle would argue that Nazis are not that different from communists.

Though he held a cane in his right hand, he did not use it to support any of his weight. That was because it wasn't really a walking cane so much as a weapon which I will now describe in excessive detail. Just kidding, I'm not Tom Clancy. It's basically like Metal Storm or a roman candle. Since Remnant is basically Space Texas, nobody really cared that he was armed.

"Do you know how hard it is to find a Dust shop open this late?" Roman Torchwick (that's the guy in white) asked as he stepped into a shop. The shop was labelled "From Dust Till Dawn", proudly declared by a large sign over the entrance.

"Please, just take my Lien and leave," The old man at the counter replied, reaching down with one hand and pressing a button under the counter. Once upon a time, this led to a silent alarm, but since that was a contradiction in terms, he had rewired it for a different function. Out front, below the main sign, was one that read "Days since last robbery". When the button was pressed, it changed from 2 to 0.

"We're not here for the money," Torchwick replied. "Seriously, you've got thousands of dollars of merchandise in here, why would we want the couple hundred in your cash drawer?"

He turned to one of his identical henchmen. "Grab the Dust."

Roman didn't reply, because he was otherwise occupied pouring some white Dust onto the counter, cutting it into a line, and snorting it through a fortuitously placed drinking straw. By the time he realized his mistake, his nose was already frozen solid.

The henchmen took out canisters from hammerspace and went to the large glass tubes of volatile, expensive Dust mounted on the walls. One of them was about to connect his canister when he noticed some guy in the back of the store. He was wearing large earphones and reading a magazines labelled WEAPONS. On the back was an ad for Heckler and Koch, which proudly proclaimed that you suck and they hate you.

"Hey, is that the theme for this show?" The henchman asked in an extremely fourth-wall breaking way, drawing his sword. "Fuck that shit."

Because he was listening to loud music, the nondescript guy in the back of the store didn't hear that, or his subsequent call of, "Hey, hands in the air!"

He tapped on the guy's shoulder and motioned for him to remove his headphones, which he did. "What the hell, man? I was reading about guns I'm no longer allowed to have!"

"Put your hands in the air!" The henchman insisted.

"Wait, hold on, I've got to answer this," the guy said, not actually paying attention to the command. He whipped out his phone, read the incoming text, and fired off a quick reply in the space of about thirty seconds. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Hands in the air! This is a stick-up!"

"Are you robbing me?" the guy asked, more confused than afraid.

The henchman sighed, exasperated. "Yes!"

"Oh..." The guy said, quietly picking up a fortuitously placed wrench. Seconds later, the henchman went flying and slammed into the front wall of the store.

_We are normals  
Running for the shelter  
Failures of modern wonder_

The guy looked at the rather large wrench in his hands. "Huh. Either I'm much stronger than I thought, there's something special about this wrench, or that guy is really light."

In the front of the store, one of the henchmen remarked, "Hey, Lighty must have got blowed on again."

Torchwick sighed. "Go check for an air vent."

Another henchman headed toward the back of the store, with a Mass Effect gun in his hand. He pointed it at the guy with the wrench. "Freeze!"

A few seconds later, the front window shattered and the wrench clattered onto the pavement. The rather stupid henchmen turned and moved to check out what was going on outside the window.

_This isn't the day we're waiting for  
This will be the day we run out the back door_

"Sorry!" The guy called, running out into the middle of the street and picking up his wrench. For no apparent reason except to better mirror the original, he did this in an extremely slow manner.

_I don't wanna here your goddamn bitching  
Hope you're ready for revolution  
Welcome to a world of disillusion  
Welcome to a world of bloody revolution_

"Oh, shit, this thing is still on, isn't it?" He dropped the wrench and fumbled with his phone. Of course, WinAmp had chosen that moment to lock up, and he ended up forcing it closed with a task killer.

"Waste his ass," Torchwick ordered dismissively.

Immediately, the henchmen pulled out their swords and rushed the guy in the middle of the street.

"Shit shit shit!" He picked up the wrench again, and as one of the henchman rushed him, he ducked awkwardly to avoid the lethal blade and swung the wrench into his kneecap. Normally, this wouldn't do much to a Remnant human, but because it was an unnamed mook it shattered his knee and dropped him instantly.

The next henchman immediately rushed him, and the man dove to the ground to avoid his sword swing. The pain of crashing into the asphalt surprised him, and he barely got the wrench up in time to block the next swing. As soon as the sword his the wrench it shattered, because the sword was made out of potmetal instead of the tool steel it was supposed to be made of.

"You have guns, use them!" Torchwick shouted.

At that point, the remaining henchman suddenly remembered that fact, drawing a micro-UZI and opening fire. Fortunately, because he graduated from the Imperial Stormtrooper Marksmanship Academy, none of the bullets actually hit the guy in the street.

More calmly than he should have, the guy walked up to the reloading henchman and hit him in the side of the head with his wrench. That caved in his skull, popping open a bunch of blood vessels in his brain. The mixing of blood into the neurons would kill him, but it didn't matter, because the bone fragments wrecking the shit out of his brain easily beat that to it.

Torchwick heard police sirens in the distance and decided to end this before he got arrested again. "Well, Red, I think we can all say it's been an eventful evening, and as much as I'd love to stick around-"

"Red?"

"Sorry, wrong series," Torchwick apologized. He raised his cane, and the end popped up, providing a very scratched and very useless mockery of a reflex sight. "But I'm going to kill you too."

"Oh shit!" the guy shouted. There was nothing he could do. Torchwick fired, and a rocket-like projectile (okay, so it's like a Metal Storm Gyrojet) streaked toward him. About a foot in front of him, it self-detonated, creating a cloud of choking grey smoke.

He stumbled out of the cloud, coughing, choking, and gasping for breath. Blinking the smoke out of his eyes, he noticed the distinctive thief climbing a ladder to the roof of an apartment building. Behind him, the shop owner walked out of the store.

He turned to the old man. "Do you really expect me to go after that guy?"

"If you want me to look the other way while you read my magazines instead of buying them, yes."

"Ugh. Fine."

Somehow, he managed to get onto the roof just after Torchwick did. He shouted at the thief. "Hey! Stop!"

"You know this is a really stupid idea, right?" Torchwick pointed out. "I have a gun, you know."

"I know," the guy agreed. "But I really like reading that magazine without paying."

"You? Weapons?" Torchwick laughed.

The guy shrugged. "Not really. But I find the extreme right-wing perspective politics unintentionally hilarious."

"Well, reality does have a well-known liberal bias."

"Yes, it's a shame that's not true here as well."

While they were talking, a tiltjet aircraft had been descending toward them. Somehow, despite the tiltjet using extremely inefficient and very loud turbojets, they were able to continue having a conversation. As soon as it was within jumping distance (10 feet, apparently), Torchwick climbed aboard.

He held up one of the crystals and tossed it toward the guy below. "End of the line, Red!"

"Wrong place, wrong time!" The guy shouted back.

"Whatever!" the thief shouted, raising his cane and firing at the crystal. Before it could hit, something descended out of the sky and there was a bright flash.

The guy slowly opened his eyes, and saw that there was a blonde woman in severe clothing standing in front of him, projecting a magic shield with lots of alien looking symbols using what looked like a riding crop. "Professor McGonnagall?"

The woman glared at him. "What- no! Do I really look that old?"

"Uh..." He didn't receive a response. The woman swung her crop, and a bunch of purple projectiles that made electricity noises streaked out and slammed into the tiltjet. That shook the aircraft up a bunch but didn't really do much.

"We've got a huntress!" Torchwick shouted at the woman in an asian-looking dress in the cockpit, trading spots with her. "Light her up with the Mark Nineteen!"

"Is this Call of Duty now?" the woman replied, nevertheless taking position behind the weapon and racking the charging handle.

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning!" Torchwick shouted back.

"That's Apocalypse Now."

"Whatever. Just kill her."

The lady in the back depressed the trigger, sending a hail of grenades out the end of the weapon toward the roof below. The two below ran out of the path of the ordinance, one smoothly and one awkwardly.

The woman on the roof waved her crop again, and a bunch of magical shard thingies appeared and streaked toward the aircraft. Amazingly, the woman on the tiltjet managed to shoot some of them out of the air with the Mk 19, and Torchwick pulled back on the throttles, dropping under the rest and nearly into the street.

He slammed the throttles to the stops, lighting the afterburners and torching two nice trenches into the pavement. The tiltjet shot up into the air, past the roof. With the throttles still in the afterburning region, he pushed the transition lever from VTOL to flight. Like many Earth aircraft, this one was fly-by-wire, and the computer saw the command and began tilting the jet pods forward. The engines were still running flat-out, and the tiltjet gained airspeed. Once he judged that the tiltjet had gained enough airspeed, he tilted the control stick. The computer realized that they did, indeed, have enough airspeed, and rather than opening valves to puffer jets actuated the ailerons.

This happened in the space of about thirty seconds, and all the two people on the ground really noticed was that the tiltjet flew up into the night.

"You're a huntress?" The guy asked. He took the woman's non-response as an answer. "Can I have your autograph?"

* * *

Nondescript Interrogation Room in a Nondescript Police Station

The woman, who had identified herself as Glynda Goodwitch, paced around the table. Sitting at the table was the guy from the store, who looked maybe 18 or 19, wore generic clothes, and identified himself only as Luke.

"I hope that you realize that your actions tonight will not be taken lightly, young man," Glynda lectured severely. "You put yourself and others in great danger."

"Am I under arrest?" Luke asked. He paused. "Wait, do you even have the authority to make an arrest? Is this even legal? Like, shouldn't the cops be handling this?"

Glynda did not respond, so he continued, "Look, if I am under arrest, I'm going to call my lawyer. I'm not stupid, I'm not going to talk."

Seemingly oblivious, Glynda continued, "If it were up to me, you'd be sent home... With a pat on the back..."

"I'd be totally cool with-"

WHACK! Glynda slammed her riding crop down on the table, inches from Luke's hands. "And a slap on the wrist!"

"But... there is someone else who would like to meet you."

Luke immediately started assuming the worst. What the hell had he gotten himself into? "Wait! I'm not a terrorist! I have rights!"

A man in green with grey hair and small, old-school glasses stepped into the room, carrying a plate of cookies in one hand and a mug of coffee.

"Luke Starkiller," he greeted, struggling not to laugh. He leaned close to Luke's face and narrowed his eyes. "You... have grey eyes."

"Great, I got the psycho perv," Luke muttered.

Motioning to the iPad in Glynda's hands, which had at some point started to playback extremely high quality security camera footage of the previous battle between Luke and the thugs- holy crap this sentence just keeps going. He asked, "Where did you learn to do this?"

"I just-" Luke began, but checked himself. He crossed his arms. "Corbulo Academy of Military Science."

"They taught you to use one of the most dangerous weapons ever designed?"

_That crescent wrench?_ Luke leaned forward, looking more closely at the footage. He realized quickly that he was not the one in the video. He answered, "Well, one teacher in particular."

"I see..." The man placed the cookies down in front of Luke, who immediately pushed them away.

"Do I really look that stupid to you?"

The man ignored him. "It's just that I've only seen one other scythe-wielder of that skill before. A dusty, old crow..."

"Oh, yes, it was Pei Mei," Luke replied sarcastically. "I learned all that shit from Pei Mei. Went to a monastery and everything. It was great."

"So I've noticed," the man commented, sitting down.

Luke looked the man in the eye and said, slowly and loudly, "Are you even listening to my answers at all?"

The answer was in the form of another question. "And what is a bright young man such as yourself doing at a school designed to train warriors?"

"Well, it's simple," Luke replied, by this point realizing he could say whatever he wanted because this man wasn't listening and deciding to have fun with it. "I want to become a blood crazed warrior who wakes up every day, just hoping for the chance to dismember my enemies and defile their civilizations."

"You want to slay monsters?"

"No, I'm just in this for the hot chick action." Which, if he was actually pursuing such a path, would probably be a viable reason for it.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I'm guessing CIA." Seeing the man's disapproving look, Luke kept trying. "FBI? NSA? ATF? Men in Black?"

"This is not set in the United States," the man pointed out.

"Oh, right, then I'm gonna guess... MI6?" The disapproving look did not disappear. "MI5, then? No? DGSE? KGB? GRU? Mossad?"

"Or even on Earth."

"Tal Shiar? Spectres? I'm not a big fan of sci-fi."

After an exasperated sigh, the man shouted, "I'm Professor Ozpin, the headmaster of Beacon Academy! Holy fuck, man, how do you not know this?"

"Gee, I dunno, probably because you mixed up the files and then didn't listen to any of my joke answers that should have made it blatantly obvious you got the wrong guy!"

Ozpin sighed heavily. He'd really screwed this one up. "Well, since I've already filled out the paperwork, do you want to come to my school?"

"Sure, why not? What's the worst that could happen?"

* * *

Beacon Academy Airship LZ 129

Descending toward the mooring pier with just enough engine power to make steerageway, everything seemed fine aboard the airship.

Unfortunately, everything was not fine. Earlier that morning, a repair had been conducting on the grounding cables of the pier. Though the pier itself was steel, the base was concrete, and cables were necessary to connect the steel pier to large grounding rods beside the concrete base.

The maintenance technician who had performed the repair had not slept at all the previous night, having sneaked out of his house to have an affair with another man without his wife knowing. He had repaired the cables, but connected them improperly, not applying enough torque to the bolts.

It had been windy that morning. Like any other large structure, the mooring pier flexed in the wind- it had to to avoid snapping in half. The flexing put stresses on the bolted connections. Usually, that was not a problem. The engineers had considered the loads caused by flexing and specified certain bolts and certain torques accordingly. Although there was some margin of error, there was not enough, and the flexing caused the bolts to pop out and the cables to disconnect.

With no grounding connections, static charges could build up on the mooring mast. And they did. These charges were strong, in fact, they were thousands of volts. The airship had built up its own charge, too, of the opposite polarity. When they were within a few feet of each other, a bright arc jumped between the tip of the pier and the skin of the airship.

The airship's skin was flame-retardant, and did not catch fire. The thousand-degree heat of the spark punched a hole straight through the skin to the duralumin frame below before the charges reached equilibrium. This took a fraction of a second, and was visible to observers as a bright flash.

Normally, this would cause only superficial damage to an airship. Though they contained large quantities of highly flammable and potentially explosive hydrogen gas, it was safely contained inside sturdy gas bags, and in any case could not combust without mixing with oxygen-containing air first. But this airship was old, and its gas bags were due to be replaced. Several of them were leaking minute quantities of the gas. Some of it was vented by internal ventilation, but some accumulated in spots of stagnant airflow.

The spark was near one of these spots. The heat ignited the hydrogen in a split second. The initial force tore the leak into a small hole, which resulted in a flamethrower-like jet of flame. One rigger saw the jet of flame, and had just enough time to scream before the bag ripped again and the flame became a fireball. In seconds, the contents of the bag were mixed with air and combusted.

It was a chain reaction. The intense heat and pressure burst another gas bag and ignited its contents, and then that fireball burst another. Within seconds, the contents of all seventeen gas bags were either burned off or in the process of burning off.

In seconds, the airship had gone from a stable craft on landing approach to a flaming wreck hurtling uncontrollably toward the ground. The hydrogen gas had all deflagerated- combusted rapidly- by this point. It was now the supposedly fire-retardant skin and duralumin frame that were on fire. The intense heat was starting to melt the frame, and the structure of the airship was starting to deform.

The crew was slow to react, and the captain wasted precious seconds before he realized that the airship was lost. It was now his job to get his passengers to safety, but it was an impossible task. Flames were already tearing into the passenger compartments, and there were only a handful of parachutes aboard. Some were vaporized when the fire flashed over into the main observation deck, and others decided that they would rather fall to their deaths than burn and jumped to the ground below.

Even those that were able to ride the airship to the ground were not spared. As it impacted, the remains of the airship collapsed under their own weight, crumpling and spreading intense flames across the landing field. The lucky ones were crushed immediately. The unlucky ones burned to death, trapped under the inferno that was once an airship. The least lucky of them survived for minutes, slowly burning to death in isolated areas that were shielded from the flames, but not their heat.

It would not be until nearly three minutes later when the first fire crews arrived. There was nothing they could do for the passengers. They knew as soon as they saw the wreck that the passengers were all dead or dying with no hope of escape. Their job was to knock down the flames with water and foam and prevent the fire from spreading if possible, saving the costly mooring tower if possible. They began their task with heavy hearts, feeling as if they'd already lost.

* * *

Beacon Academy Airship LZ 101

Luke blinked, then turned away from the window, shocked by the humanity. He muttered flatly, "I am so glad I was not on that airship."

"Hey, Luke, I didn't know you were coming here," a loud voice interrupted.

"Hey, Rong, how you doing, bro?" Luke greeted the newcomer, drawing him into an embrace and pounding hard on his back.

"Not bad, not bad, just got busted for impaired driving," Rong Min Short, a guy who was, despite the name, both white as sour cream and Luke's brother.

"How did that happen?"

"Just like the drunk driving ads," Rong replied. "Dark, late, coming back from a party with some drunken friends in the back, doing a little weed, drove way too fast and wrapped the car around a pole."

"Holy shit!"

Rong shrugged. "Yeah, they said I could either go to jail or go to camp. But it turned out camp was full so they sent me here instead."

"To combat school?"

"Yeah. Either somebody has a sick sense of humour or somebody screwed up."

They quieted down and turned to the news broadcast, which was displayed on a holographic monitor. Despite the ultra-futuristic holographic display, the broadcast was in 480i and heavy with interlacing artifacts.

The woman on the screen was well-known newscaster Lisa Lavender. In the corner of the screen was a picture of a city on fire, with two flags above it. "Thank you, Cyril. In other news, the fighting in Gaza turned intense once again when Hamas rebels launched several rockets into Israel, who responded with another round of airstrikes-"

Her face and voice changed from calm and impassive to pure rage. "What the fuck? What the fuck is Hamas? This isn't the motherfucking news! Which one of you fucking cunts switched my fucking script to this fucking shit! WHICH FUCKING ONE OF YOU FUCKING MOTHERFUCKERS FUCKED WITH MY FUCKING NEWS SCRIPT! FUCK-"

The newscast was cut off, and a hologram of Glynda Goodwitch appeared in its place. She began, "Hello, and welcome to Beacon!"

"Who's that?" Rong asked.

"My name is Glynda Goodwitch," the hologram replied, although to be fair it was a general introduction and not a specific response to Rong's question. In fact, the hologram was actually a recording that played on every airship every time.

"You are among a privileged few who have received the honor of being selected to attend this prestigious academy! Our world is experiencing an incredible time of peace, and as future Huntsmen and Huntresses, it is your duty to uphold it. You have demonstrated the courage needed for such a task, and now it is our turn to provide you with the knowledge and the training to protect our world." With that, the hologram disappeared.

"Wow, what a load of crap."

* * *

LOSR Theme: This Isn't The Day

_They see you as weak and useless;  
They see you as just a fool.  
Surprise when they find out why a lunatic will soon run wild._

_Prepare for your hardest moments;  
Prepare for your final hour.  
The dream that you've never dreamed is randomly about to flower._

_We are normals;  
Running for the shelter,  
Failures of modern wonder._

_This isn't the day we're waiting for.  
This will be the day we run out the back door.  
I don't wanna here your goddamn bitching.  
Hope you're ready for revolution.  
Welcome to a world of disillusion,  
Welcome to a world of bloody revolution.  
In time, your heart will rape my mind,  
A story will unfold,  
And victory is out of our control._

_Your world needs a great defender.  
Your world's in the way of harm.  
You are a useless fuck; an idiot that has no skills._

_Beware that the light is fading;  
Beware if the dark returns.  
This world's unforgiving, all you idiots will cease to live._

_Motor City.  
What a fucking shithole.  
Humanity is fucked forever._

_This isn't the day we've waited for._

_We are morons.  
Welcome to a world of disillusion._

_This isn't the day we're waiting for.  
This will be the day we run out the back door.  
I don't wanna here your goddamn bitching.  
Hope you're ready for revolution.  
Welcome to a world of disillusion,  
Welcome to a world of bloody revolution.  
In time, your heart will rape my mind,  
A story will unfold,  
And victory is out of our control._

* * *

**Dossier: Luke Starkiller**

Race: White.  
Weapon: Crescent Wrench (I think, maybe it's a pipe wrench)  
Gender: MALE  
Age: 18 or 19, whichever is legal here lol

Outfit: T-shirt, jeans, sometimes a hoodie, dirty Nike Air shoes  
Accessories: Samsung Galaxy S Captivate, yeah, I know, it's shitty

Handedness: Levo, like all other humans  
Complexion: Slightly Tan White  
Hair Color: Brown to Black  
Eye Color: Grey  
Semblance: Ludicrous Speed!

Affiliations: Beacon Academy  
Previous Affiliations: Corbulo Academy of Military Science, really!  
Occupations: Student. Just a student. I don't do anything else. No, I'm not hiding anything!  
Team: I don't need any fucking team.  
Partner: Don't have one, a few girlfriends over the years though.

Status: On my way to Beacon now! If you see new friends that's my Beacon friends :D  
Relatives: Yeah, I'm not gonna fill this in. Most of them think I'm dead.

First Appearance: Probably when I came out of my mom's birth canal.  
Music Theme: I don't know, it's not like one magically starts playing when I show up.  
Voice Actor: The fuck is this shit? This form is bullshit!


End file.
